Rescue
by ourlipscantouchx
Summary: Draco Malfoy, the cold cruel person everyone knows him to be, sees a side of Hermione Granger that not even her precious Ron and Harry have seen. Could this show that they’re more alike then they thought?
1. Intro

Smooth, powerful, and collected. Those were the words that described none other but Draco Malfoy. His distinctive features of white-blond hair, gray eyes, and stunningly athletic build made him an attractive guy. It's too bad his "beauty" was only on the outside. His father had turned him cold. His smile was never to be seen, only in a smirk, which twisted his otherwise handsome features. He was never weak, and always in control. His heart was just as cold as his eyes, never receiving the smallest of praise from his father, and no words of comfort from his mother. He had grown up in a household devoid of love. Survival of the fittest was what he was taught.

* * *

Clever, passionate, and fiery. Who else but the over-achieving Gryffindor muggleborn, Hermione Granger? She was quite pretty, although not many would notice. There was too much frizzy hair and shapeless clothing covering it all up. Pouring her heart into her studies, showing that she can be better than anyone else in _something_. All of that to cover up what she couldn't fix, or face, for that matter. That's why the 10 months spent in Hogwarts are the ones Hermione Granger longs for. There is safety behind those walls.

* * *

So when they find themselves pushed together, how could anyone find them to be accepting of each other? Maybe they learn to have more in common then they think. 


	2. Chapter 1

It was August 28th, only 2 more days until school starts, and all Hermione Granger could think about was studying, and of course "how could she EVER be caught up with all the work?!". Not. Studying was the last thing from her mind. She'd just gotten home from her summer job, babysitting for a young boy down the street for some extra pocket money. She walked in through the door, opened the fridge, and began to pour herself some iced tea.

Who else could walk in besides Frank, her father. His walk had a limp and his face was slightly dazed. He was obviously drunk. No, he didn't beat her. It's sad that's what you think of when you think of a drunken father. The saying "sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me" was so wrong. The things he said hurt far worse than a simple blow. He blamed her for just about everything, down to the fact that he had a hard project at work. Somehow, that was HER fault. Her mother knew nothing about this, of course. He was a supportive father, worked a day job, and loved his wife and daughter dearly. At least that's what he showed when Alice, Hermione's mother, was around. The first words out of his mouth were

"HEY, HEY WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?"

She was used to his bouts of rage, so she replied calmly, "working at Joe's house, I told you that this morning."

"YOU DIDN'T TELL ME SHIT!"

It was futile to argue, since he obviously was so fucking drunk he couldn't remember a thing.

"I'm sorry Dad, I'll make sure to tell you next time." I calmly took a sip of my iced tea, and watched the gears in his head work.

"YEAH, YEAH, maybe if you lost some weight, you could think better!" This obviously, made no sense at all.

At 5 foot 2 inches, 134 pounds, Hermione was admittedly, chubby, but it wasn't as if she was grotesquely obese. Her dad liked to fling "weight jokes" around whenever he found nothing to say. This didn't do much for her self esteem though.

"Sorry Dad, I'll try" was the only thing she could muster out before she left the room, not wanting to hear anymore of her fathers pathetic blubbering.

She flicked on the TV, but found herself way too distracted to pay attention to the soap opera on TV. Her mom wouldn't be home for another hour, and she could already feel the tears welling up inside her eyes. She couldn't let Frank see her cry. It was just another thing he'd hold over her. She picked up her already room temperature glass of tea, and set it down on the coffee table, making way to her room.

Her room was white, pretty bare, and pretty uninteresting. Her parents never got around to the decorating job Alice talked about a few years ago. Lying on her bed, she hugged a pillow close, plugged in her headphones, and began to listen to some band she really wasn't paying attention to. She was trying to distract herself from the turmoil she was put through every single day, but it didn't really work. She hardly ate, in hopes to lose weight, and constantly cut. It was a nervous habit of hers. Whenever she was upset, it was the only thing that calmed her down. She'd thought of suicide before, but it wasn't for her. She had so much more to live her once she left her house, so it hadn't gotten farther than cutting.

When the tension and anxiety seemed too much to bear, she made her way to her bathroom, quietly sat down on the floor mat, pulled out the scissors from underneath it, and drew red lines up and down her wrist. The sight of the blood calmed her down, and after 5 minutes she was done. She wiped off the scissors, put her arm under the stingingly cold water of the faucet and pulled on her ratty hoodie. No one would ever know. She was determined of that.


End file.
